


There's Something About Neal, or, Omega Charms

by myriadofnothing



Category: White Collar
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Omegaverse, Dubious Consent, M/M, Pheromones, Prison Sex, Sexual Coercion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-06
Updated: 2012-07-18
Packaged: 2017-11-09 07:56:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/453136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myriadofnothing/pseuds/myriadofnothing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Omega!Neal has dub-con sex with a prison guard, then plots.</p><p>Neal receives injections that chemically castrate him, keeping his pheremones from driving everyone crazy.  He's been taking them his whole life (even before he was arrested and registered as an omega and forced to take them) because it was always in his best interest.  But now he needs to get Agent Peter Burke on his side, and to keep him there.  Time to fire up his omega charms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Helpful Prison Guard

He'd gone four years without resorting to sex for favors, or sex of any kind, actually (and he wasn't counting the demeaning prison doctor exams). Now he faced another four, with only one week until Peter's promised meeting. There wasn't enough time to finagle the hormone injections by more roundabout methods.

The guard's cock pushes against the entrance to his throat. He takes a steadying breath through his nose, then another because he's not ready, but he's not going to be because it hurts every time. He stretches his jaw forward and presses down harder until the cock head pops into his throat. His eyes water. The guard shifts his hips he gags, but forces himself to stay down on it. He rocks minutely back and forth and the guard groans above him. Pubic hair scratches his lips and tongue. He gags again, and again harder, so that he has to pull off. He swallows the water that came up from his stomach; that's all he drank this morning in preparation.

He takes the head back into his mouth, sucking strongly with shallow bobs up and down. His spit covered fingers slide tightly on the shaft in sync. He switches sucking to stroke his tongue wildly around the head, and finally it swells wider against his lips. Sometimes it seems like this guy purposefully draws it out until his throat was raw and his cheeks sore, and his hands itchy from dried and reapplied saliva. He licks under the head and thick, bitter semen floods onto his tongue. He lets it build in his mouth until the guard pulls his cock away, then he spits the glob to the side with feeling.

"Tomorrow you'll have it," he says, hoarse, reminding the guard as he carefully packages himself away.

"Yeah, yeah. You'll get them." The guard offers a hand to help him up. Neal wipes his own on his orange pants and accepts it, only because he needs to appear companionable. The guy thinks he's the one who'll be fucking Neal when he's packed with synthetic hormones and showing heat. And if Peter doesn't take him up on the tracking anklet deal, he probably will be.

 

* * *

 

He drops the lines about the Dutchman, the new GPS tracking anklets, a heartfelt assurance that he wouldn't try to run. But the coup de grace is subliminal. The dose was calibrated and timed so his heat wouldn't show until that evening. Peter ought to be feeling an itch to keep Neal close by, but shouldn't be able to pin the source.

Peter doesn't take the bait. "Sorry, Neal. Nice try." he says.

 

* * *

 

His heat peaks overnight. Arousal finally overpowers his anger and disappointment, and he is able to masturbate without his thoughts getting in the way. He strokes himself slow and tight, slicked with his own secretions. There's no point trying to end it too soon, he knows from his and Kate's experimentations a lifetime ago. He'll come and stay hard, and just get sorer the more times he does. It's better to go slow and draw out the time between orgasms.

Footsteps scratch down the concrete corridor. A flashlight's bright circle and a guard's silhouette pause outside his cell. Neal barely surfaces from his thoughtless headspace until he realises the guard has been standing there for half a minute. Then he reconizes the figure as his supplier.

"Hey there stud," Neal whispers, halfway between sarcastic and pleased. Mindful of the broken lightbulb glass from his earlier temper, he approaches the bars. The guard nods hello absently, reaching through to feel his cock. He squeezes it, testing its impressive stiffness. His hand goes lower and Neal presses closer for him to reach easier. Neal's breath hitches when fingers glide against his asshole, gathering fluid. The guard brings his hand back to his face and breathes deep.

"Turn around," he says, quiet and excited.

Neal does, spreading his cheeks shamelessly and pressing back to let the bars hold him open. A hand strokes his ass and feels into his loose hole. Neal pleads in his thoughts. The fingers withdraw and there is an awkward pause, then the tantalizing sound of a zipper. Finally, a light hand steadies on his hip while a cock head presses slowly into him. Neal groans and the guard shushes him.

The stamina that irritated him during blowjobs does good for him now. The guard fucks him carefully so they don't make any noise, and thoroughly. Neal bites his entire lower lip in his teeth to keep in his moans. His impractical omega emotions make affection curl in his chest so that he grabs the hand on his hip for more contact.

When he can't contain his vocalizations, a grip on his shirt collar pulls him further upright, and then clamps over his mouth. Neal makes a muffled, disgruntled sound, immediately followed by a new moan. The fresh angle has him reaching for his cock and panting desperately through his nose. A dozen strokes later his come spatters the floor in pulses.


	2. Interlude with Mozzie

Peter comes back the next day, mind changed. If Neal overlooks heat-fucking a crooked guard because Peter didn't take him out immediately, it's perfect timing. He'll get a chance to soak Peter in more pheremones before his body burns up the last of the hormone dose.

Peter puts on a stoic front, apparently immune to any instinctual nudges to protect and provide: he shoves Neal into a shit motel with no clothes or food. But the next morning Neal makes his entrance down June's stairs, dressed to the nines. The way Peter stares says he's on the right track after all. Neal grins and does a twirl for him, shows off his hat trick.

"This is what gets you into trouble," Peter scolds him, not pleased with Neal's new digs and duds. "This is the start of those something-for-nothing schemes that lead to the frauds that got you locked up."

Neal lets himself look chastised when Peter orders him to the car in a no-nonsense tone. He gives Peter a taste of submission and goes meekly, keeping the smug off his face. He spends the rest of the day following Peter around, helping on the Dutchman case, and making sure to bend over suggestively while examining evidence. Late in the evening when they're still brainstorming, Neal lounges with his feet on the conference table, displaying his anklet. It's a pseudo mark of ownership- remind Peter that it's there.

 

* * *

 

That night he sees Mozzie for the first time in a long time, waiting for him in the dark at June's. They exchange pleasantries, Moz speaking in quotes and metaphors: he hasn't changed. Moz can't help with the tracker and has no news about Kate. Neal drops the Dutchman's forged bond on the table in front of him.

"I need you to help me figure out who created this."

"It's superb."

"Isn't it?"

"You know the worst thing about art forgery? You can't take credit for your work." That's a good idea- the Dutchman may have left clues in the art as a signature. Neal leans in to scrutinize the bond with new purpose.

Mozzie stiffens next to him. "Are you on? Why are you on?" Unlike people who haven't been friends with an omega for many years, Mozzie can recognize the certain unusual feelings caused by an intact omega.

Neal gives Moz some space; he'd forgotten. "I need to make sure Burke keeps up this deal." Mozzie opens his mouth but Neal presses on because he knows what Moz wants to say. "It's not like that. I didn't- You know Burke, he wouldn't trade for sex, he'd just add bribery to my charges." Mozzie scoffs. "This is just a draw to make sure he keeps me out. Long enough to get a plan together."

"What are you going to do about the tracker?"

"I don't know. That's what I need time for. I'll need more O* to reel him in."

Mozzie shakes his head and hand, dismissing the plan immediately. "No. No, if you're swimming with the suits you'll need more control. You'll be back in the big house if a suit realises what he's smelling. What you need," Mozzie says, leaning in like he's getting into it, like they're blueprinting a con, "is to skip your scheduled inhibitor shot, and use suppressors." Neal nods as he considers what Mozzie is outlining. "Then, if you sense trouble, use a supressor shot. Your, uh, physiological symptoms will stop in minutes, but you'll have to-"

"Shower and change clothes," Neal finishes. "But I can't just skip getting the inhibitor. The clinics keep tight records, and they know where to find me." He gestures peevishly at his ankleted leg.

"You know, I have a white lab coat." Mozzie offers.

Neal's slow smile is genuine. It's time for another con with Mozzie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *street term for omegogen, the omega hormone

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to continue in this 'verse with Neal's sexcapades with various people as he tries to initiate bonding with an unsuspecting Peter, but I have no track record with lengthy fics. Maybe if I cross my fingers.


End file.
